Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

“Afternoon, Miss Puss,” Mr. Coal said from the driver’s perch. His top hat swallowed his small head, and the size difference caused the hat to wobble when he spoke. “You’re looking well today. Catch any good mice lately?” I did not know Mr. Coal’s true name. Rather, I’d assigned it based on his route. He worked the black line, Mr. Goldenrod worked the yellowish line, Mr. Sky worked the blue line and so forth. Endearing myself to the city’s omnibus drivers had been easy; a plaintive mew, a blink of my eyes, and they were mine, present company included. “Mind your step,” he said, working the door lever.

I boarded the horse-bus and walked between a preponderance of legs, looking for a seat. After realizing the joys of transportation last autumn, I became a public transit devotee. Yes, yes, the cobblestones rattled a body, tail to teeth. But, oh, the convenience! The journey to Rittenhouse by paw would have taken until sundown, and I had neither the patience nor the stamina to see it through. I found a seat next to a bespectacled woman with a pheasant plume on her bonnet. The slender brown feathers fluttered in the open window behind her as the carriage lurched forward. Despite the gaiety of her hat, however, the woman’s face had all the charm of a pitted prune.

She leaned out of the window and shouted to Mr. Coal, “Driver, why does the cat ride free? I demand to know, where’s her dime?”

“I asked her for fare once, missus.” Mr. Coal’s voice floated in through the window. “She tried to carve me like a Sunday ham. But you go right ahead and get the money from her. I’d be much obliged.”

“Dear me,” the woman muttered. She rose and took a new seat, squeezing between two gentlemen in the rear of the coach. This suited me, and I settled into the rhythm of the horses’ steps. By and by, their cadence calmed me, lessening my need for blood. I would engage Midnight in a battle of wits, not claws, I decided. It took two transfers to reach my destination, but I made it to Rittenhouse near teatime.

I yowled to be let off and disembarked, taking in the familiar smell of the place. The odor of limestone and new construction prompted memories, both good and bad. I could not say I missed this neighborhood, not as I did Fairmount. I set out for Midnight’s imposing townhome, reaching it several blocks later. Climbing the steps the wide stone porch, I began a campaign of vocalizations until a small child answered my call. Her blonde curls sprang from her head like a bird’s nest. If memory served, this was Sarah, the miniature mistress of the house. In her arms, she carried a baby swaddled in a tapestry shawl with black fringe all around.

The girl knelt and patted me on the head, giving me a peek inside the bundle she carried. My first assessment had been incorrect. She held not a baby but a large grey kitten with a shiny ribbon tied round her neck. The tabby’s permanent teeth poked jaggedly through her gums, as if they hadn’t had an opportunity to grow in yet.

“You’re cute,” Sarah said to me. “Do you have a home? Would you like to come in? We’re playing house, and Lovie needs a sissy.” She bounced the kitten-baby in her arms.

Sissy ? Could she have met Mrs. Poe? I doubted it. “I am looking for Midnight,” I said to the kitten. “Does he still live here?”

“For the time being.”

“Then will you get him for me?”

“He is napping,” the kitten said with a touch of boredom.

“He is a cat,” I said. “He is always napping, you supercilious scrap of fur. Now retrieve him at once, or I will reach into that blanket and—”

“Cattarina?” Midnight padded onto the porch. Sunlight glistened on his long black fur, lending him a regal air I found irresistible, even today. He still wore the blue ribbon round his neck, the one I remembered from our last visit, but it had frayed at the edges.

“Oh,” Sarah said, “she’s come for you, handsome boy.” She leapt to her feet and sang, “Midnight’s got a sweetheart. Midnight’s got a sweetheart.” She skipped into the house with her kitten-baby. As the door swung shut, the grey fur ball gave me a direct stare, ears tipped sideways. What insolence.

“A matched pair,” I said to Midnight. “Good riddance.”

“Sarah used to dote on me, until Lovie showed up,” he said to me. “But enough about them. Let’s talk about you and where you’ve been the last six moons.” He sat on his hindquarters and puffed his chest fur, displaying the white patch over his breastbone—the most glaring difference between him and the murdered cat. “I tried to visit you last winter, but your pal at Eastern State Penitentiary—”

“Big Blue?”

“Yes, that’s him. He couldn’t say where you’d gone.”

I turned my nose to the sky. “You kept busy with other mollies, I am certain.”

“None like you, Cattarina.”

I paused to consider my strategy, settling on Circle and Pounce. “Perhaps my charm comes from a feral upbringing.”

“Maybe.”

“You and I are different, aren’t we, Midnight? You have never known the hardships of street life. I, on the other hand, know them too well.” I circled him, treading with slow, soft steps.

“Well…yes. But don’t feel bad. Not everyone is fed from a silver spoon at birth.”

“And what, pray tell, came on your silver spoon?”

“Oh, you know…the usual.”

“Minced lamb? Creamed tuna? Bacon drippings?” I circled tighter.

“Of course.”

“Ha!” I spat. “Lie upon lie upon lie!”

“What are you talking about?”

I faced him, hackles raised. “Why didn’t you tell me you were born a stray, Midnight? Or should I call you Crow?”

His pale eyes shone bright, twin moons against his dark fur. “H-how did you find out?”

“Silas and Samuel, my new neighbors.” I walked to the edge of the stoop and wrapped my tail around me. “I am sure you are acquainted with their caretaker, Mr. Eakins.”

“Yes, I know Mr. Eakins. If not for him, I would probably be dead by now.”

Like the cat in the tree. I dismissed the thought. “Then why did you hide the truth, particularly when we share the same heritage? To humiliate me?”

“What? No! To impress you.” He joined me on the top stair. “There have been other mollies, Cattarina, but none with your…fire.”

“I do have fire, don’t I?” I unwrapped my tail and cast it lazily upon the steps.

“Yes,” he said. “Enough to burn down the whole of Philadelphia.”

“And my ears. Do you like them? I think they are my best feature.”

“They are, without a doubt, your best feature.”

We brushed cheeks. All was forgiven.

“So you came all the way to Rittenhouse to catch me in a lie?” Midnight said. “I’m flattered.”

“No, of course not,” I countered. Many untruths had been told this afternoon; I did not mind adding to their number. “My purpose lies with another stray, hanged this very morning near Green Street. To find the tom’s executioner, I must learn his identity. So I am speaking to as many of our kind as possible in the hope that someone knows something. He looked a little like you but all black. On the small, scrawny side with a single orange eye. I shan’t tell you about the other eye.”

Midnight swallowed. “When you say orange, do you mean pumpkin or copper?”

“I don’t see what difference—”

“Please!”

“Very well, copper- ish .”

“If it’s who I think it is, the cat’s name is Snip. I hadn’t thought about him in…” He stared at a passing wagon filled with anthracite. “Well, it’s been ages. We met during our stay with Mr. Eakins. The old man placed me in a home first, and I never thought about him or that old life until today.” He sighed. “Funny little tom. Always worked for the laugh. He ran loops around the Coon Cats. Loved to spill their water dish and watch them play in the mess. He was quite the entertainer.” Midnight faced me, his eyes narrowed. “I hope you find who killed him, Cattarina.”